


Breathing is crying because I can't do either anymore.

by porotic_hyperostosis (I_am_not_your_bro)



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Bad Poetry, Rambling, indulge me, not really - Freeform, poetry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_not_your_bro/pseuds/porotic_hyperostosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Golden rambling seeping through my pores. Make it famous or kill me. EIther way I'll be happy (dead).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing is crying because I can't do either anymore.

Here I am, sitting alone in a home that's not my own. Watching people crazier than myself, overthinking it and underthinking it and thinking about thinking about thinking about it. It's like my own personal drug trip; it makes me want to scream and sob like the child I should be.

I am my own psychotic drug, on a constant supply. I can't stop because it'll never let me go.

I'm dead, but not really. I miss everyone, even those with stupid fucking hope. The hope that makes my face and insides and eye sockets rot. Hope hurts like the songs with no meaning. It hurts like the feeling I get writing this- it's not important or creative, and no one will be impressed or inspired by it.

This is when I start with the nonsense.

Death again.

Recovery is bullshit; so are the chills flitting through my brain, spinal cord, bloodstream.

Everything hurts, bullshit.

Music, bullshit.

Elbows, bullshit.

Religion, bullshit.

Everything, bullshit.

Bullshit, bullshit.

 

All of this is poisoning me; my thoughts are the alpha waves, penetrating my cells and mutating them. I'm drowning in my life and hope suffocates me. Emotion is both draining and exciting- being both the torturer and the tortured.

Thoughts are the perfect weapon- a preprogrammed suicide planted inside every human brain. Those that see this are doomed from thereon.

It's the tiny thing that help the littlest bit. The effect of unmeaningful lyrics and a nice tune have on the soul can be soothing, yet equally can decay the mind to ruin.

Sadness never used to lead to suicidal feelings. Now every feeling leads to it. And every not feeling.

I'm like a psychic. I told them that they would leave me, and they said no, of course they wouldn't, they'd never do that. The last time we spoke was weeks ago, I was replaced a month after I said it.

I care about one person, and he has too much power. Guilt is a bad feeling, and he knows it. That's what he lights up for, the hope that I won't try to swallow pills again, that maybe the cuts on my arms and the bruises on my wrist are self-indulgent and a product of my daddy issues. But they're not. I don't know when, but I must have decided to lose responsibility for my sanity and health and heart and soul.

It's cold now, my hands are numb and still the boniest part of my body. I'm still astonishing and so fucking sorry for scaring him. Like I said, guilt is one of the bad feelings and even my skin cells are frozen with it.

I'll have to convince him to let me do it. Either way, it'll be by his hand. I can't lie to him, he can't tell the difference and guilt. It's hard because the more I lie, the more genuine my smiles become. He thinks that's good, nice, fucking dandy.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I'm alone and no one likes me. It's cold and the candle wax on my hand isn't hot enough anymore. No, I'm not on drugs but how I wish I was.


End file.
